


Insidiosus

by Pokytoad



Series: A Vessel of God [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (there's a baby), Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Partisans, Post-WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-17 22:02:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10603152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pokytoad/pseuds/Pokytoad
Summary: Lithuania waits in the train station on the eve of his arrest, 1951.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This oneshot isn't quite an independent piece, but Iactura is a quick read :)  
> Don't be intimidated by 15 chapters because I'm not a good, _descriptive_ writer like I should be.

"I need a ticket."

The booking clerk at the kiosk starts from his novel as Lithuania tosses a filthy wad of rubles onto the counter. It is well past midnight.

He takes it, cautiously, eyes never leaving the rifle slung over Lithuania's shoulder.

"A train ticket, please." He repeats, making an effort not to show his impatience.

His voice echoes through the empty train station. He doesn't even know where he is, but he knows that today is January 7th, 1951, and he knows that he missed the Epiphany of the Lord, and he knows that the last time he had his hands on coordinates he had been near the western border, close enough to reach over and _touch_ Poland if he had liked.

"Anywhere."

"I need your visa."

Lithuania rummages in his threadbare pockets for a moment, presenting a water-damaged booklet to the man.

He has false papers, but he won't need them tonight.

Taking it delicately, the clerk compares the photograph with the tired man in front of him for a moment. The long hair and early beard makes him look more like one of Jesus' disciples than the man in the neat little photograph, but those haunted, dark eyes are the same.

"You are Lithuanian."

"I am."

"I cannot give you a ticket."

"Please, I have more money," he pushes forward a handful of coins, picking out the acorn shells and bottle caps. "I just need a ticket."

The booking clerk considers him for some time, hands pressed tightly together, and Lithuania realises with a sick twist of humour that the clerk is afraid of him.

"What station?"

"Anywhere."

And Toris leaves the booth with a ticket he will never use clenched in his fist — a ticket to Moscow, conveniently, so the clerk might avoid _propiska_ , set to arrive in an hour.

He pretends not to notice when the clerk silently picks up the office phone, pretends not to notice the quiet, soft words uttered in the mouthpiece. He still catches the fragments.

"Partisan… armed… Laurinaitus... Gdańsk station…"

And the cynical, half-mad part of him thinks, _yes_. _Come and end this_.

Instead, he notices the forgotten belongings of people too caught up in the passing of time to remember what was lost.

Fliers, ticket stubs, buttons, a glove and a man's hat…

Newspapers and books, boxes, shoes, suitcases.

That these things were merely left behind is something he wishes so dearly, but he knows the deliberate nature of the items scattered about the empty station, because he's seen it before. These are not belongings that had been forgotten. These are the belongings of forgotten people.

One such belonging - a weathered crate - is sitting alone underneath a nearby bench.

It isn't the words scrawled across the side that draw his attention ("PADĖTI", he reads, in his own language) but the peculiar shuffling that sounds from it.

Toris finds a newborn baby inside that box, naked but for the soiled blanket protecting it from the rough panelling of the crate.

He stares for a moment, shocked and confused, before wiping his filthy hands on his filthy trousers so he might unbutton his overcoat and sweater. Some primal instinct reminds him of an odd fact Ukraine had told him once while they were kneading bread in the kitchen, and he carefully lifts the baby, pressing it against his bare chest.   
  
"I'm sorry, I haven't bathed in a while." He mutters as he folds the wriggling thing underneath his shirts and seats himself on the bench. 

Toris leans back and closes his eyes for a sparing moment before looking back down, peering through his mess of clothes at the baby. "I suppose I should give you a name, love. I've always wanted to name a little girl." 

He names it Eglė. _If I betray you tonight, may you become a fine spruce, and I an aspen for my cowardice..._

The baby only lies there for a few moments before it begins to thrash about and squirm wildly, emitting strange, pained hiccuping noises. It could hardly have been more than 6 months old.

"I know, I know. I'm hungry too." He murmurs, untangling its grasping, pulling fingers from his loose strands of hair and fishing around in his trousers for a makeshift trinket. His rosary.

The baby balls up the amber beads in its fists and begins gnawing at it with toothless gums.

"I don't have any food…" Toris hooks an index finger around the rosary so as to keep it from choking and vigorously massages its cold body, bringing it ever closer to his sternum to keep its wobbling head from falling back. He can feel the January chill reaching through his open shirt and hopes that the baby feels what heat he has left.

He can hear the heavy footfalls of booted feet now, but makes no movement to stand. _Let them come_. 

Toris could laugh for the sick pain of it all, and he has just enough strength for a dry chuckle; he hasn't slept in over a week and he's been hallucinating for half of that time, sluggish with illness and dehydration and grief.  

The baby kicks feebly and he watches as those wet little hands lose interest in the rosary and began to grasp at his hair again, pulling hard enough to force Toris to lean over, his face is close and those _wet little hands_ pat at the bridge of his nose-

Toris sneezes as a finger attempts to shove its way into his nostril. He swaddles its arms against its chest with the blanket.

And then he covers his face with a trembling hand and begins to cry, his warm tears dripping onto the baby's ratted blanket as hoarse sobs overtake him. Because the overwhelming terror is too much and their faces, he can see their faces in the rounded, chapped cheeks of this little child. He's been vacant and unfeeling since he woke on the forest floor, stiff, gasping for air, frost on his lips and a collar of bruised flesh about his neck. This baby is the first living thing he has touched since that night.

All of them.

Too young, too young.

The baby's hands are worming between his lips and pushing against his unshaven jaw.

Toris allows the tears to continue falling, even as the shining pairs of black boots stop at his feet, even as he casually looks up to check the hour.

01:15

Even as Russia places a hand on his shoulder.

"Good morning, Mr. Russia."

"It's time to go."

The baby is lifted from his arms, leaving only cold, empty space.

His narrow chest clenches with the loss of it.

"Please be careful with her."

"I will."

The only words that make it to his ears are spoken by the voice of his dead chaplain. 

_But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not destroyed_ _.*_

**Author's Note:**

> * 2 Corinthians 4:7-9
> 
> Propiska: Soviet railway policy restricting travel without certified passports, etc. If I used the term incorrectly, let me know in the comments; resource information on _propiska_ is sparing at best.
> 
> Gdańsk: Polish city on the Baltic coast. Let's just say Liet could have _definitely_ reached out and touched Poland.
> 
> Eglė: derived from the Lithuanian folktale _Eglė, Queen of Serpents_


End file.
